


Love Songs of an Idiot

by Porphyrios



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: All These Boys Need Hugs, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bilbo is So Done, Bofur Really Is An Idiot, Clueless Bilbo Baggins, Erebor, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Misery, Neurodiversity, Nori Is A BAMF, One-Sided Relationship, Temporary Character Death, When Ones Go Wrong, even Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27055228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porphyrios/pseuds/Porphyrios
Summary: "A hobbit ran from his home one fine morning to join a group of dwarves.  He was unprepared to travel, they were unprepared to be traveled with, and the stage was set for a comedy.  Bofur knew this sort of play; he'd seen enough of them in the Blue Mountains when he had a few spare coins and the traveling players were in town."  What Bofur didn't know was that it wasn't a comedy at all.  When you give your heart to the wrong person, bad things happen.  A cautionary tale for dwarves.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Bofur & Nori, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Bofur/Nori (Tolkien)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... there's a lot of discussion and fics about how Ones find each other and suchlike, but JRRT wrote: "The number of dwarf-men that marry is actually less than one-third... some desire none; some desire one that they cannot get, and so will have no other." What happens when a dwarf falls for someone that (for whatever reason) they can't have? This fic is one possibility. I didn't lie with the eventual happy ending tag, but it may not be what is expected :) If you like it (or if you don't), feel free to tell me why in the comments! Love you all! <3

"Master Baggins, tell us of the Shire, then, while we pass through it. Lots of flowers, lots of fields to be seen, but what do your people think of dwarves?" An idle question from a bored dwarf. It started innocently enough. 

A hobbit ran from his home one fine morning to join a group of dwarves. He was unprepared to travel, they were unprepared to be traveled with, and the stage was set for a comedy. Bofur knew this sort of play; he'd seen enough of them in the Blue Mountains when he had a few spare coins and the traveling players were in town. Even though most of the actors were humans (and the few dwarves among them were treated like clanless pariahs), Bofur still thought there was craftsmanship in what they did. He couldn't imagine what crimes or needs would force a dwarf to leave their home and wander from place to place with humans, but that wasn't something he could ask them about, and at the end of the day it was none of his business.

What Bofur hadn't expected in response to his question was the glowing smile of relief that lit up whole Bilbo's face, not knowing how desperately Bilbo Baggins wanted to hear a friendly voice, see a friendly smile, to get some sign, any sign, that he hadn't made the biggest mistake of his life joining a group of adventurers going halfway round the world to fight a dragon. Not only that, but fight a dragon over a mountain Bilbo couldn't imagine and that most of the dwarves had never even seen. What he hadn't expected was a long, rambling response, full of cheerful gossip, stories about wayward family members and humorous anecdotes that showed life in the Shire to the fullest, with all its charming peculiarities (and peculiar charms as well) intact. What he hadn't expected was a conversation that glowed, that sparkled and bounced and sang its way along until the miles they covered went unnoticed and the rest of the company faded into vague silhouettes around the edges of his attention. Who knew hobbits could be such good company, anyway? 

As the days crept past and the terrain roughened, Bofur spent more and more time chatting with Bilbo while showing him the proper way to do... well, just about everything really. Even if he weren't such excellent company, Bilbo was a nice enough little fellow, the dwarf thought; friendly, cheerful, and determined to be helpful, though he was (as best anyone could tell) utterly useless in the field. He didn't know how to gather wood, how to build a fire, how to set up a bedroll properly, how to wash himself and his clothes in a small stream with minimal fuss... he was familiar with none of the million small ways to turn camping from impossible to comfortable (or at least passable). Though the company were careful to keep such discussions away from Bilbo's unaccountably pointy ears, it was obvious to everyone that the hobbit had never spent a night out of doors in his life, which was a bit shocking when one thought about it. Oddest of all to one of Mahal's stoneborn and hardworking children, the hobbit had no craft. He made nothing, built nothing, and labored at nothing but words and writing silly songs. It was glaringly obvious that he was no dwarf. Even so, Bofur found his eyes seeking out that curly, blond head, watching through the day for the flash of bare, furry feet, glancing around at odd times for a glimpse of Bilbo's ridiculously inappropriate russet colored frock coat. His ears were tuned somehow to the higher, lighter voice of the hobbit, always seeming to be listening even when Bofur's mind thought it was elsewhere.

" _You need to be careful_ ," his cousin Bifur muttered softly one night from where he sat beside him, following Bofur's gaze to where Bilbo splayed out comfortably on a log, talking to Fili and Kili by the campfire. Bifur's Khuzdul was oddly-inflected, had been ever since his injury, but at least he could still speak - most who went to battle at Azanulbizar never spoke again, the dead being famously taciturn. His inability to speak anything other than Khuzdul was just a part of him by now, hardly noticeable. " _You spend too much time with the hobbit. Talk to someone else for a while. Nori was looking for you earlier_." Bifur's hand waved lazily towards the deep shadows at the edge of camp where a thin, rangy dwarf with an elaborate pointed hairstyle could be vaguely discerned. Even lounging elegantly on a flat rock the dwarf seemed to be in gentle motion, hands waving like weeds in a stream and black eyes watching Bofur... watching closely enough that the miner looked away quickly.

Memories of the few furtive experiences he had with Nori in the Blue Mountains rose uncomfortably in his mind. Bofur had been universally nicknamed Rockworm among the miners, famous for the speed and skill of his tunneling. The others had taken him out drinking to celebrate when he found silver and he first saw Nori across the room in the Deep Lode. Mocking eyes watching him across the tavern, strange words and actions pushing him away but attraction drawing him close. Whispered words, shocking and arousing but startlingly filthy as they clutched at each other in a hidden alcove, hands flying over each other for furtive pleasures. An even more enjoyable repeat a week later, but then... Bofur had discovered that the too-attractive dwarf was a known thief, and that was that. During the planning of the expedition Thorin had announced that he had pardoned Nori for this venture, said that the thief had reformed but... "Careful of what?" Bofur snapped, stung. "I don't mean any harm. I just..." he trailed off, staring over at the hobbit where he sat repairing his waistcoat with a needle and thread from Dori. He dragged his eyes back to Bifur. "And I thought you didn't even like Nori!"

" _You know what I'm saying. Don't play stupid with me, cousin. Harm may find you, whether you mean it to or not_ ," Bifur replied, eyeing him warily. " _Take it from me_ ," he said, tapping the enormous scar on his forehead, legacy of an orcish axe. Bofur nodded absently, attention still focused across the fire. Bifur sighed in disgust and wandered off, but Bofur scarcely noticed, caught in the flash of firelight on a moving needle.

By the time they reached the Trollshaws the next day, Bofur was beginning to suspect that his cousin had been more than right and that he had a problem... a particularly hobbit-shaped problem. Even when he wanted to pay attention to something else, his mind seemed to be always attuned to Bilbo somehow. As they sat in camp that night his eyes were pulled to the hobbit like iron filings to a magnet. Firelight glinted on short windstrewn brownish-blond curls, so different from a dwarf's hair. He watched as the hobbit's nose twitched just before he laughed, full-throated and open, at something that Kili had said. Longing went through him, painfully sharp and sudden, like stumbling over a blade and realizing only after you had stood up again that you were cut. Bilbo's smooth, pale cheeks flashed before him, no trace of a beard, none of the things Bofur had always found attractive. He liked decorated beards and fine, strong hands, always had; thin, muscular dwarves with dark hair and dark eyes, and most of them miners or warriors. Nori had been his type, a handsome one for sure, all dark eyes and sharp, talented tongue and too-quick hands, whipcord-thin body wrapped in muscles. Sexy even though he was seriously strange, always moving and talking in words that seemed to make no sense. Everyone Bofur had previously enjoyed a bit of fun with had been proper dwarves, never so short, never so soft and pudgy around the middle, so golden-blond, or so glowingly beautiful. I'm in trouble, he thought belatedly, recognizing the riptide too late to fight his way back and feeling himself being helplessly sucked out to sea. I'm in terrible trouble. Sleep was far away that night.

The next day, he eased his pony up the line to chat with Bilbo again, the invisible cord in his gut reeling him in against his will. "Good morning, Master Baggins," he called, and Bilbo smiled over at him. He had to admit, the hobbit had learned to ride fairly well for someone who had clearly never sat a pony before. He looked at the tiny, soft hands holding the pony's reins, wondering why he ever thought they were anything other than adorable, wondering what he had seen in hands that were in any way different. Bilbo gave a bashful half-smile, cutting his eyes to where the dwarven miner rode.

"Good morning, Bofur. Please... call me Bilbo. There's no need for formalities among friends, and I... would be honored to consider you as such." Bofur's heart soared before he could catch it. He grinned from ear to ear, but in the back of his mind he heard Bifur's voice saying _harm may find you whether you mean it to or not_ and had to agree. He was used to being attracted to people, but this... this was a whole new land, and he didn't know it at all.

"It's beyond an honor to be considered a friend by you, Bilbo." Their conversation picked up where they had left off with Bilbo chattering happily along. Bofur saw Nori scowling at him from the side but he was too happy to mind. They talked for a bit while Bofur snuck up on his subject. Finally he saw an opening in the conversation. "Master Baggins, I don't mean to pry, but I didn't see anyone else in your home. Are you married, or...?" He left the pregnant pause dangling, watching the crimson flush spread across Bilbo's face. He hadn't meant to embarrass the hobbit, and he was trying to think of a way to salvage the situation when an extravagant showman's voice interrupted, deep tones combining with sardonic mockery. A familiar voice, at that.

"Many are married to faces they know, others to faces yet unseen, no to know and known alike." Nori appeared from behind them as if by magic, riding his pony directly between Bilbo and Bofur, face calm as if he had not spoken but dark eyes probing at them, fingers dancing in their own rhythm on the reins of his pony. "Joining in marriage, married to join. Some join like fire, hurtling and leaping, spinning log to log in rapid race to consume, others like water, rolling and flowing, pouring together, interpenetrating promises, some like air, flying limber leaping darting, changing wing for wing like fowl in flickering flight..." Nori gestured extravagantly with his arms at Bilbo who seemed both confused and enraptured at these verbal flights of fancy. Bofur normally tried to unpick Nori's gnomic pronouncements, but found himself wishing the former thief would just leave. "Only dwarves, Master Baggins, join like stone, fixed and firm and free from flux, wrapping, twining tight around the core, bending once and nevermore, like stone enfolding jewel snug within. Do you see?" Dark almost-black hair twisted up into a confection of points like a star, beard and mustache and eyebrows braided and decorated with bindings and beads, the narrow-jawed face lit up in a blinding, angular smile directed at the hobbit, who laughed like a delighted child. Bofur shook his head; this was ridiculous even by Nori's usual standards. He could speak clearly, Bofur knew, but rarely did. This, though... this made him sound like a madman, though Bilbo seemed not to think so.

"Master Nori, I think you must be a poet," Bilbo said, still chuckling. "That was a magnificent verbal performance. If I had known you to be such a wordsmith I would have spoken to you before now. Do you write?" Nori bowed at the compliment, for all the world like a stage player, but drew back at the question.

"Paper and pen are a pallid purview," Nori said, making his face a mask of offense before chuckling sardonically and looking down. "Words are not made to be stretched like skins upon a drying rack, Master Baggins. They are often too dangerous to be allowed to take form unchallenged, too fraught to be made permanent." Bilbo looked intrigued, and Bofur found himself again wishing that Nori would just _go away_ , take his nonsense talk and odd behaviors elsewhere. The star-haired dwarf cut his eyes darkly to Bofur for some reason, and the miner felt his face flush as though he had been caught doing something illicit.

"Why would you say words are dangerous, Master Nori?" Bilbo asked, clearly interested now. "I've spent what feels like my whole life talking, and I've never had a word rise up and try to kill me. I've written a few songs in my day, but none of them harmed a soul." The hobbit chuckled, and Bofur thought he looked so beautiful in the sun with his hair sparkling he could feel himself leaning towards him. Nori sighed and glared at Bofur again.

"Danger is as and where we find it, Master Baggins," Nori said, and the tone of his voice was serious now, silliness fallen away. He leaned close to Bilbo, voice a hissing whisper that still carried clearly to where Bofur rode. "Others often find my speech overdone, but overdone is safer than raw, do you see? Raw words left uncooked with complications tell things too directly we do not mean to say, speak secrets into light that never should be born. Words are knives with blades well hidden," a flick of Nori's fingers produced a dagger seemingly from nowhere; the blade whirled dramatically around one of Nori's long spindly fingers, flashing in the sun as Bilbo jumped in surprise, then vanished again. "Hidden blades for hidden hurts, telling things too soon that should have gone unsaid, unthought, unfelt. To talk direct is to leap upon the blade, but to dance delicately around, trace the borders of the edges of those words so sharp as knives... this is what saves our fingers and our lives." Nori smiled a bitter knife-edge sort of smile. "And so I dance."

"I...." Bilbo was trying valiantly to follow, but he had clearly gotten lost in the verbal underbrush, a tiny furrow between his brows as he tried to riddle out this latest speech. "So you are saying, if I understand you correctly, that words are dangerous because they can be used to hurt?" Bofur fervently wished Nori would go bother someone else. He saw Nori's brother Dori staring back at them with a disapproving scowl on his face (nothing new there, Bofur thought sourly), and Bofur didn't know whether it was the hobbit or he himself that caused that expression. Either way it was grim enough to give him a headache even without Nori's little performance. The star-haired dwarf nodded extravagantly, a gesture quite overblown for normal conversation, then tapped each finger three times in order on his pony's reins before speaking again.

"Words can cut deeper than sword or axe, crush worse than stone. Did brave Bofur here," a wide-flung gesture at the miner almost bounced off his forehead, causing Bofur to lean back and glare, "hit me with his mattock that he bears, my worst pain would be that day alone, and then slow-slow to heal the wound, but one day gone with even scar a faded thought of war that once had been. But words, ah! Words can cut a wound in will and mind that bleeds unceasing, day after day, until the end of life and then beyond, careless whisper sharper than stiletto of steel straitly stabbing. But the word of the moment in this moment is enough, for I must depart. Good day," Nori caroled, sounding so odd and silly that Bilbo giggled. As the dwarf rode away, he turned and fixed Bofur with a steely glare that made him draw back. "You," he said conversationally, no trace of humor or his earlier oddness, "are an idiot." After a moment, he turned, nodded to Bilbo, and rode off.

"Bofur... why would he say that to you? That hardly seems friendly." Bilbo stared after Nori, seeing him ride up next to his brother and say something that seemed to send the older dwarf off into a huff.

"I have no idea," Bofur said softly. But he thought he might have an idea, though it was an unwelcome one. Maybe he wasn't as subtle as he thought, and the concern left him broody the rest of the day. Several times he caught Nori staring at him, and each time he turned away wondering what the former thief's problem was.

Later that evening, as they were all sitting around the campfire, Bofur dropped heavily to the earth beside the root on which Bilbo had perched with his dinner. "I'm sorry if I overstepped earlier," he said sheepishly. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It was none of my business."

"Oh... I... no, quite alright," Bilbo said, expression and sudden tension giving the lie to his words. "It's just that... well, truthfully, no, I'm not married; I would never have run off and left a wife or... anyone if I were." Bofur noticed the hesitation and felt a brief flicker of hope.

"Ah, well, that's kind of you, and good to have the option," the miner said expansively, waving one hand. "We dwarves have to go off and leave our wives and husbands alone all the time. No choice, really; besides, they have things to do themselves. Dwarf women don't travel if we can keep them from the need to do so, since there are so few. If two men are married, well, they've both got duties to perform that take them where they must go, no choice in it." This last statement was made with an intense focus on Bilbo's reactions, though it turned out not to be needed. The hobbit almost dropped his plate before grabbing it, dropping a chunk of his bread off onto the leaves. The miner picked it up quickly, dusted it off with care and set it back on the plate before looking up to see Bilbo flushed crimson and gaping at him.

"What... two men can marry?" Bilbo realized abruptly how he must look and drew himself up properly. "I mean, among dwarves of course. That's... well, that's very interesting. And unexpected. Hobbits don't do that." Bilbo gave a strained and obviously forced laugh, and then stared at his dinner like he'd never seen meat or beans before in his life. "Such things... well... even an attraction between two men would cause a tremendous scandal if it should be found out." Bilbo's face looked hotter than the campfire, blazing red.

"Oh really? That's a shame," Bofur said, pretending to be at ease with every fiber of his being. "Dwarves think nothing of it, really. You love who you love." Seeing how unnerved the hobbit was, he decided it was time to change the subject and let that idea sink in; Bilbo's obvious fascination with the subject made him feel like his suit was not as hopeless as he had thought, or so Bofur hoped. He thought briefly about telling Bilbo about how dwarves could only fall in love once, sealing that love with their first kiss, but thought better of it. Plenty of time for that later when the hobbit had a chance to get used to the notion of intimacy between men being accepted. Besides, he had to be careful with telling secrets like that lest he get in trouble with his own people. Dwarf culture had many topics not deemed fit for outsiders to know, and the hows and whys of courting were among the most closely-kept. If he was going to tell the hobbit, some privacy would be needed.

The subject didn't arise again until they were nestled safe within Rivendell; trolls and orcs, wargs and wizards, the journey was fraught and the company was chivvied here and there like sheep. Even so, Bofur began to be disturbed by the looks he caught Bilbo giving to Thorin. The king looked at the hobbit with disdain, scorn written in every line of his face, but the looks Bilbo was giving Thorin back... it wasn't scorn that burned in those hazel eyes, and disquiet gnawed at the miner's core like the rockworms he had been nicknamed for. Even so, Bilbo was still friendly and was even more open with him, chatting and laughing, and Bofur tried to convince himself that it wasn't cause for concern. Once they were safe in the valley he went looking for Bilbo the first night after the welcoming feast. He found the hobbit wandering on a balcony, admiring the flowers in the moonlight. Bilbo had never looked so unearthly, or so beautiful, and the miner was struck dumb for a moment before stepping out and saying his name.

"Bilbo," he said, noticing how breathy his voice sounded, "couldn't sleep either, I take it?" The hobbit turned, smiling, and Bofur felt his heart lurch in his chest.

"It's just so lovely here, Bofur," Bilbo said. "I never thought... well, it's just amazing really. I know dwarves don't like elves in general, but even you must see that this is beautiful!" Smiling down at the hobbit, Bofur couldn't disagree.

"Yes," he said softly, looking at silver-lit curls and bare feet, shadowed eyes and a soft plump belly behind its waistcoat. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Bilbo didn't seem to notice where Bofur was looking, assuming he must be talking about Rivendell (or Imladris, as the elves insisted on calling it). The hobbit smiled softly, still eyeing the grounds.

"I was looking for you earlier," he said.

"Oh?" Bofur replied. "Why?"

"It was... something you said." Bilbo's skin seemed to darken, even in the silver moonlight, and Bofur wondered if he was blushing. "You said over a week ago that... that among dwarves, two men could... could marry." His discomfort was obvious. Bofur nodded, trying not to let his feeling of triumph show in any way. "How..." Bilbo trailed off, staring down at his hands which were twisting around each other.

"Yes, it's true," the miner said, keeping the conversation moving, "there's things I'm not supposed to tell you, really, you not being a dwarf and all, but..." He put his finger to his lips and raised his eyebrows playfully. Bilbo drew closer, grinning like a naughty child. "Since you're traveling with us, and we're friends, I suppose I will answer your questions but don't tell and get me in trouble. Do we have a deal?"

Bilbo's eyes sparkled, even in the dim light. "Of course," he half-whispered. "I won't tell a soul." Bofur nodded.

"Let's find a quiet place to talk, then. We're out here in the middle of the path, wouldn't want to get caught spilling secrets, now would I? Or worse yet, be overheard by an elf!" Bofur shuddered theatrically and Bilbo giggled, despite his disapproving look. Taking the hobbit by the arm, they stepped back into the hall and found what appeared to be a small sitting room lined with books. There was a lamp lit but no fire in the grate, and Bofur closed the door with a sigh. "There, a bit of privacy." When he turned, Bilbo was looking at him oddly.

"Bofur, I don't want to get you in trouble," Bilbo began. "If you think these are things I shouldn't know, I..." The miner held up his hand, already shaking his head.

"I don't mind telling you anything you want to know," Bofur said gently. "It seems to be important to you to know, and maybe we dwarves are too secretive as a people. But yes, to answer what I think you were asking, dwarves don't pay a lot of attention to whether the person is male or female. We... don't have a lot of dwarven women," Bofur said uncomfortably. "The birth rate is low, and our women are dear to us, but there aren't enough. We find love where we can, and each dwarf only falls in love once, so..." Bilbo's soft exhalation of astonishment cut Bofur's words short.

"Only once?" he asked. "That seems... well, no offense, but that seems a bit strange."

"Yes, only once, which is why we call the one we love our One. It would seem strange to us to do otherwise. Do hobbits fall in love so many times, then?" Bofur asked with an awkward grin. This was interesting, and a bit terrifying, if he was being honest. Imagine being in love... more than once, he thought faintly. The very thought was shocking. Bilbo flushed and this time Bofur could see it properly; he turned red to the roots of his golden curls.

"Hardly _so_ many times, at least not like you make it sound!" Bilbo said in a faintly scandalized tone, swatting lightly at Bofur's arm. "But, well, we have crushes when we're tweens, and sometimes those turn to proper love and sometimes not, and sometimes people are in love for a bit and then that doesn't turn out to be the one they marry after all... it's all a bit complicated to explain, but for hobbits we settle once we marry, and then that's the one we stay with for the rest of our lives. Until marriage there is," he paused, obviously trying to choose the right words, "some flexibility."

"But your _flexibility_ , as you put it," the miner's smirk at the term made Bilbo swat at him again, though they both gave a short chuckle, "this flexibility is only between boy hobbits and girl hobbits? How strange," he commented, surreptitiously watching Bilbo's reactions and seeing what he wanted. "Aren't there any men who like the look and feel of other men in the Shire, then?"

"I... well... it's considered quite..." Bilbo was so flustered words could barely find their way out. Bofur leaned in closer, speaking in a softer voice.

"I find that hard to believe," he murmured. "If there are hobbits that look like you." Bilbo gave a little sigh as Bofur leaned forward again, just a bit. Hazel eyes met dark ones and dilated wide, pupils darkening with desire. "I think you are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, Bilbo Baggins," he said in gentle voice.

"Bofur..." Bilbo said brokenly. "I... I don't know what to say." His eyes were wide and entranced, breast heaving, and Bofur could feel the hobbit's breath on his face. It made him mad with wanting.

"There's no need to say anything," Bofur whispered, and pressed his lips to Bilbo's. The hobbit whimpered and kissed him back, arms coming up to hold his shoulders and stroke the dwarf's hair. Bofur's heart rang like a gong, and he was totally lost in the feeling. This was everything he had ever imagined it might be, Bilbo's mouth tingling against his own, feeling the heat wherever their skin was in contact... heaven. Just feeling the hobbit's delicate fingers in his hair was intoxicating. He traced one of the pointed ears with his lips, pulling needy whines from the small form writhing beside him. His hands wandered down the soft body, finding something which wasn't soft at all. "In my language you would be called _kidhuzural_ , the golden one," Bofur whispered, pressing himself into Bilbo. "I dreamed about this on our trip, that you would love me as I love you." Bofur was so caught up in his lust that he didn't notice how the hobbit stiffened in his arms, thinking it was arousal. He leaned in again.

"Bofur..." Bilbo said softly, moaning in spite of himself at the feeling of Bofur nibbling his sensitive ears, "Bofur, stop, please. Hold on a moment," The miner pulled back a bit, confusion written all over his face. "What do you mean, love you as you love me?"

"I..." Bofur cursed his tongue. Not for the first time, he had said far more than he meant. Still, Bilbo had kissed him back, hadn't he? "I realized on our trip that..." Bilbo didn't even let him finish.

"Bofur, you just told me dwarves only fall in love once, and now you're telling me that... Green Lady of Trees!" Bilbo was emphatically not aroused now, and Bofur began to feel a cold worry building in his gut. "Bofur, what do you mean? How can you claim to be in love with me? I'm..." Bilbo ran his hands through his curls. "Frankly, I don't know what to say to any of this."

"I'm sorry," Bofur said, not even sure what he was apologizing for. "We only kiss our Ones, it is the final sign and seal. I would never have done so if I didn't mean it, if that's your concern. You even touched my hair! You're beautiful, and clever, and it seemed welcome, and I..."

"Welcome!" Bilbo screeched. With a guilty look, he lowered his voice, but still sounded furious. "There's quite a difference between a bit of kissing and groping and being in _love_ , you ridiculous dwarf! I thought you were looking for a bit of fun, not... not marriage! I don't love you, Bofur. This isn't why I asked at all." The sound of that was like a leaden weight in the miner's chest. So much for the good feelings, he thought miserably.

"I'm sorry," Bofur repeated, trying not to cry or shout. "Of course you're upset, and understandably so. Not being a dwarf, of course you wouldn't know what those things meant, and it wasn't fair of me to expect it." Bofur was focusing on breathing now, trying not to lose himself in panic. Bilbo was staring at him as though he had two heads, but all he could think to try to do was to explain himself. "You're right, of course, and I do apologize. I would like to court you, if you'll tell me how. Perhaps we can start over, and I can follow hobbit customs, to..." Bilbo shook his head in dismay (the miner wouldn't allow himself to call it disgust).

"I... no, I don't think that's going to be possible, Bofur. Perhaps... perhaps we should just go to bed." Bilbo got up and Bofur scrambled up beside him, knowing his face was showing his misery but not able to control it.

"Please... just let me... please?" The click of the door closing behind Bilbo sounded like the gates of a fortress slamming shut and the dwarf fell sobbing to the floor. He didn't make it back to his bedroll that night.


	2. Chapter 2

After the confrontation in Rivendell, events seemed determined to slide from bad to worse. For the rest of their stay, Bilbo's focus on Thorin became steadily more noticeable, to the point that even Bombur started joking about it (and was subsequently confused and hurt by Bofur's furious reaction). Bofur watched Thorin berate the hobbit on the mountain trail and tried to offer words of comfort, but even those were thrown back in his face. He was nearly frantic when the hobbit went missing in the goblin caves but when Bilbo rejoined the party, Bilbo ignored Bofur's words of welcome and had eyes only for the king. To make things worse, Bilbo saved Thorin's life. When they had all reached safety on the Carrock and Thorin made his pretty little speech, he embraced Bilbo. Bofur saw the look of hopeless adoration cross the hobbit's face and the very soul within him shouted 'NO'. Just one word, but it echoed and rang through him like a bell. Until that moment, the only thing that had been keeping him (mostly) sane was that for all Bilbo's mooning and pining, at least Thorin was openly disgusted with the hobbit. As long as the king had no interest in doing anything with the hobbit beyond sending him home, Bofur was content to sit and wait, gnawing at his hope that the hobbit might change his mind like a hound with a bone. Nori had made the comment in one of his extravagant pronouncements that "When 'is' holds no food, 'maybe' can be a feast for the heart" and Bofur thought that was the best summary of his current existence he had ever heard. He sat around feasting on maybes... until that horrible moment that Thorin looked at Bilbo and actually saw him. Bofur wanted to throw mud on the hobbit, cover him up, make him look disgusting, ridiculous, anything, but turn the glowing blue eyes of the king away from the hobbit that Bofur wanted so very, very much. Events at Beorn's house were even worse; Bofur tried everything he could think of to find a way to speak to Bilbo, but Thorin was a constant looming presence and Bilbo... his eyes were only for Thorin. The hobbit made it clear he had no interest in speaking to the miner, and Bofur wept himself to sleep every night.

By that point in the journey, Bifur and Bombur both just stayed away as much as possible. Bofur supposed that, from their perspective, he had snarled and snapped at them quite enough for what seemed to be no reason, though the pain of being abandoned by his kin while suffering so much was painful. Dori and Ori were constant, judging presences, but they were never overtly hostile, nor even impolite. Bofur never could figure out what their problem was, since they clearly felt no particular protective urge towards the halfling. They just watched the miner with cold, sneering expressions, as if waiting for him to fall over dead or burst into flames. All the Durins ignored him, of course, even the distant relatives like Gloin, since he was only along as a foot soldier and pack mule, hardly worth their notice. Bofur had come to the conclusion fairly early on that his traveling companions were all mad in their own way, and each day that passed solidified that belief. For that matter, he was feeling more mad each day himself.

The only bright spot was Nori. After Rivendell, the former thief seemed to sense that something was wrong and became a more regular presence, which helped a bit. At least he had someone to (sort of) talk to, though Nori was almost always cryptic, usually dripping with sarcasm, and would occasionally just rise and storm off for no reason Bofur could see regardless of the matter under discussion. By necessity he learned a great deal about the former thief's oddnesses and foibles; his hands tended to stay in constant movement, tapping and sliding and seeming to count things one-two-three as Nori thought. Nori had odd rules for things, how many of an item could be carried in a hand, how many steps could be taken to accomplish a particular goal or reach a particular destination, how many bites a given food must be eaten in, no more, no less. More than once he spied the thin, rangy form taking tiny hopping steps or bounding along like a startled deer, trying to match some intended number to his eventual target or avoid some unspecified but doubtless horrible future. Bofur thought for a while that the star-haired dwarf was some sort of seer like Oin, but finally realized that Nori was simply... odd. His rituals and behaviors didn't have any magical efficacy beyond his own mind, and his omens rarely made sense compared to Oin's direct pronouncements. Even so, different or not, the former thief gradually became a good friend. Nori's word salad replies that had seemed so impenetrable at first became easier to understand with experience (though understanding was never guaranteed). Bofur soon came to realize that Nori simply talked around things, rather than coming at them directly like most dwarves. He circled and sidled up on topics, changing subjects mid-sentence sometimes, wrapping loops of complicated words and speech around seemingly simple concepts. The careful listener could discern startling perspectives and deep insights being offered on what was going on around them, tucked away in the elaborate iterating metaphors and similes that filled his sentences. Bofur also strongly suspected that sometimes Nori spoke just for the sheer joy of it, reveling in the alliterative sounds and chance rhymes of the words he chose and their texture on his tongue more than their sense, with an enormous and wide-ranging vocabulary... a vocabulary Bofur was mildly envious of since his own ability to speak was purely social (and sometimes not even that). It also seemed that the more emotionally charged the subject, the more agitated and rambling the other dwarf's discourses became; Bofur noticed that subjects close to Nori's heart produced more tapping and gestures, which added to the oddness but which was also curiously charming once he got used to it. Over time it became clear that Nori was astonishingly brilliant in an odd way, though his behavior was hardly what any dwarf would consider normal.

Right after the company left the Blue Mountains, Bofur had made an effort to get past his discomfort with the former thief. Beyond their two sexual encounters he didn't know him, and had previously found his oddness off-putting. Nori had a way of leaving Bofur feeling consistently wrong-footed, not sure what to do or say, that he found unnerving. Even so, in one of their first proper conversations of the trip Nori had delivered a long, rambling encomium about food in the various taverns of the Ered Luin and the best examples thereof before looking at Bofur, nodding once, and saying apropos of nothing, "I will tell you a secret if you wish." The novelty of a sentence which was both short and clear was so great that Bofur nodded immediately. Occasionally you got one or the other, but almost never both together.

Nori leaned in and looked both ways, acting for all the world like he was about to impart some deep and hallowed knowledge. Finally he drew in a breath and whispered "I find it very difficult to speak clearly of things." Bofur waited a moment, but no more was forthcoming. He looked over and Nori was staring at him fixedly, crow-black eyes almost mournful; Bofur sensed somehow that the former thief was waiting for Bofur to mock him for making such a big deal out of something so glaringly obvious. Who didn't know that? Still, his gut told him that this was a test of sorts, offered in full expectation of being made fun of for stating the painfully apparent as a secret, but also that to do such a thing would cause Nori to withdraw. The miner didn't even know how he knew this, just trusted the same instincts that told him when stone was sound and when it was loose, full of ore or empty.

Following those instincts, Bofur simply nodded and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, so?" He responded. "I think how you talk is your own business. You're both clever and funny, something I can't seem to manage, and certainly never at the same time. Besides, I think it's obvious that you're smarter than anyone else here, including that useless wizard." The blinding grin he got in return was more than worth the moment of compassion, and he felt warm knowing he had provided comfort to someone who probably wasn't used to it. After that moment Nori seemed to think of Bofur as a friend, and their interactions became longer and more meaningful (though Bofur still didn't understand half of what Nori was saying sometimes).

One thing Bofur noticed swiftly after the terrible events of Rivendell was that Nori would not tolerate any mention of Bilbo beyond the most daily, picayune observation. He had no problem speaking to Bilbo directly, he just wouldn't put up with Bofur referring to him when the hobbit was absent, which seemed peculiar even for Nori. To say Bilbo's name in reference to something like carrying water or daily tasks was usually fine, but any more than that and Nori would rise and vanish. No matter what pain was in his heart, Bofur soon learned not to talk about the hobbit if he wanted the conversation to continue. He assumed that Nori must not approve of Bofur's obsession, and he couldn't blame him; in his saner moments Bofur didn't approve of it himself. Want and desire were twisting him up inside, making him withdrawn, bitter, and sullen, and he didn't much like the dwarf he saw himself becoming but to do otherwise seemed beyond his power. While every conversation with Nori tended to end with Bofur being told some flavor of "you're an idiot", it didn't take long to discover that Nori's inflection was key to understanding what was really being said with the phrase. When they parted on an amicable note, it sounded almost like a blessing, a teasing tone at odds with the words themselves; when they argued, it meant what it said, often with scorn or disdain. Oddly enough, when Nori left because of the mention of Bilbo, he wouldn't say it at all... but that was when Bofur heard it the loudest. Those times, he was left to realize on his own that he was an idiot. It never took too long, and each time he walked near the former thief and said "I know" with a particular tone, he would receive a brilliant grin in return, and then Nori would come back and speak once again.

When the company was captured and imprisoned in the cells beneath Mirkwood and a quick roll call revealed that Thorin was missing, Bofur felt guilty for how he exulted. When the king emerged from a barrel at Laketown, Bofur cursed his fate anew. So it went, through all the days of searching for the secret door, the fight with the dragon, the long weeks of Thorin's madness... he felt like an evil spirit haunting the halls of Erebor, keeping witnesses around as protection against the king's insanity (he was utterly confident that Thorin would kill him given the least excuse) but exulting at every sign of the king's debility while protecting Bilbo from Thorin's rages. Despite the awkwardness between them since Rivendell, Bilbo couldn't seem to resist the comfort of a protector, and Bofur felt thrilled to be the one offering that protection. Each grateful look from the hobbit was hoarded like gold; each terrified glance towards Thorin shone like mithril. Lust for the hobbit burned in him like dragonfire; dreams of plump, pale limbs, delicate ears and golden curls haunted him like a vengeful ghost. When the king gifted the hobbit a mithril shirt, the richest gift in the mountain, Bofur could tell that Thorin's mind still sought to mark Bilbo as his own even in the depths of his madness. Always, Nori hovered nearby, a bottomless well of sarcastic (though wordy) observations and soaring verbal extravaganzas that amused Bilbo when he heard them, provided some small degree of comfort to Bofur, and generally provided social lubrication to a strained interaction between miner and hobbit that was in danger of grinding to a halt and catching fire like a broken mill. Finally, when Bilbo appeared on the wall before the battle, Bofur encouraged him to flee - better he be safe outside from what was certain to be a slaughter. He watched from hiding as the hobbit went over the wall, delighted that the one he loved would be safe from the coming storm... and more than a little pleased that he had deprived Thorin of Bilbo's company. He prayed that he might live to track him down afterwards and offer him his heart again, though with the way the war was shaping up, that was increasingly unlikely.

Then, unexpectedly, Bilbo came back.

Despite how little the star-haired dwarf liked references to his former profession, Bofur asked Nori once after the battle, "Given what you used to do for a living... did it ever occur to you that Bilbo had taken the Arkenstone?" He half-expected Nori to storm off at the mention of Bilbo's name even though it had been quite a while since the part of the trip where such behaviors had taken place, but the close-lipped shrug and amazed headshake he got in return said everything perfectly. In truth Nori was all that saved Bofur in the times that followed. It was Nori's hand clutching the back of his armor that kept Bofur from attempted regicide on the walls; even that wouldn't have been enough if Tharkun's meddling hadn't stayed Thorin's hand. It was Nori's words whispered in darkness that kept Bofur from attacking Thorin, from jumping the walls, or doing any of the other thousand bad ideas his own personal obsession suggested.

Worst of all was that some vile part of Bofur rejoiced. It was a low, feral sort of joy, but by this point any sort of joy at all was rare. Once the hobbit's safety was assured, Bofur could have danced and sung despite the war which was at their doorstep. Surely, the little nagging voice of jealousy whispered, surely no regard could survive such a blow. Surely Bilbo could never look at those eyes again without seeing Thorin threatening him, trying to fling him from the walls to his death. Even worse, among dwarves to threaten the life of your One was a scandal so absolute as to throw the whole mountain into an uproar, and five of Thorin's kin had seen him do it including his two heirs. Dwarves were cast out for such things, shorn, branded, sent out to wander clanless on the roads, never welcome in a hall again. Even a noble would suffer heavily for such a thing. Even a king. Surely... A whisper from beside him called him back from such speculations, along with a set of spidery fingers tap-tap-tapping on his arm. He glanced over. Dark eyes caught his, held them, and a bitterness the equal of his own echoed in the sentence that followed. "You're an idiot."

Bofur nodded, back on familiar ground. "I know." With that, both turned in silence to watch the battle lines form up, Nori with arms crossed and fingers still dancing against his own forearms. 

When the battle came and the company came forth from Erebor to fight, Nori's knives saved Bofur not once, but over and over. The lanky dwarf had often looked odd or awkward moving through the halls of Erebor, skipping or hopping while chasing his carefully numbered steps, tapping and rapping fingers on walls as he passed, but on the field of battle he was death incarnate. No orc could come near him and live, and Bofur almost died several times while gaping at the feats of acrobatic slaughter Nori performed so easily, slicing and stabbing through tiny gaps in armor and helmets as though the orcs and goblins were naked and asleep. In front of the miner's baffled eyes Nori climbed a troll with startling nonchalance, planting two daggers through its eyes before it could even reach up to its face, then leaping off the falling corpse to kill two more with such swanlike elegance that Bofur just stood dumbstruck.

"Less watching, more fighting," Nori called in a sing-song voice, sounding like he was chanting some dwarven battle-hymn as he killed in a circle. "Now is not a good time to rediscover your eyes, Bofur the blind, seek to live and later look, fight now fiercely in the fray with the foe before you!" Feeling vaguely embarrassed, the miner turned back to the battle. He wasn't a soldier but all dwarves from the Blue Mountains knew how to fight, and he wielded his mattock with grim efficiency (though with none of Nori's shocking grace). Minutes or hours later (time did strange things during battles) he saw an enormous orc with a scimitar charging towards armor he recognized. Thorin. Immediately the thought arose: just let him die. That would solve your problem, a cold voice inside whispered. You will find no rival in a dead king. Feeling somehow defiled, Bofur forced himself to step forward. He killed the orc from behind with a blow to the helmet even as Thorin turned in surprise, staring at Bofur on the battlefield.

"Bofur," Thorin said, eyeing him and looking down at the orc he clearly hadn't known was there. "My thanks," with an inflection that made it sound like a question. Bofur only nodded.

"My king," he responded, and they both went on fighting, choosing new enemies and moving off in opposite directions. Shame burned in the miner's heart. To even think of letting his king die because of personal matters was disgraceful. Still a raging, jealous part of him screamed that he was a fool to save his rival. But he is my king, he shouted into the depths of his own mind. He wasn't sure it was listening. 

Once the battle finally ended and the wounded and dead were tallied, Thorin and both the young princes lay almost dead in Oin's tent. Bofur felt as though he had passed a test. Perhaps, he thought, I saved him and did my duty, and now if he dies... well, it won't be my fault. This thought was followed almost immediately by a prayer. Please, Mahal, take him and give me the hobbit. I will make any pilgrimage, offer anything, for the rest of my life, if you just give me this one thing. Dwalin rounded up the company and each of them went into the filthy tent one by one to say their farewells. When Bofur stepped inside, he froze in shock and fury. Bilbo was sitting by the head of the bed, stroking Thorin's hair and crying. The hobbit didn't even look up, but the sight of those small fingers touching the hair of someone else almost drove him mad. Pale and shaking, Bofur mumbled something vaguely appropriate and fled, ignoring Balin's scornful glance.

Despite the miner's heartfelt prayers, Thorin stubbornly refused to die. The princes lay in a separate tent, healing more quickly than their uncle, and Fili was acting as regent with Balin's help while Thorin lingered in the land between life and death. The younger Durin seemed content to ignore Bofur, and the miner was more than happy to return the favor. Instead of useful work, Bofur spent his time shamelessly stalking the hobbit whenever he emerged from Oin's tent, bringing him food, a warm cloak, tea, wine, offering anything he could. Bilbo seemed appreciative, but even so the distance between them grew with each encounter. Bofur knew he was losing him. It had already seemed that there was nothing the miner could offer to compete with a living, vital king; competing with a dying one was impossible. Worse yet, Bofur got drunk one night and happened to encounter the hobbit on a walk through camp. Full of beer and misery, he made a tremendous scene, confessing his love all over again and by so doing drove Bilbo away. 

When the miner woke the next morning with a pounding head and realized what he had done he wanted to throw himself off the mountain. He dragged himself up to sit on the edge of the Ravenhill tower and stared down at the cliff face below, wondering if he could bring himself to jump. It would at least be quick. Despite his deep depression, he was startled when someone sat down beside him. Glancing over he saw the fingers dancing, tapping out a quiet rhythm of their own, and sighed as he realized who it was. "Please don't mock me," Bofur said in a tiny voice.

After a moment, Nori spoke in a voice much calmer than his usual flamboyant, rippling word streams. "Do you know the danger of gold sickness?" Constant motion almost stilled, Nori stared at his hands and Bofur realized that the former thief wasn't calm. He was holding himself painfully in check, trying to force his words to obey. The miner wondered why briefly, but misery and thoughts of Bilbo kept him from caring. He already was too full of things to worry about to add another.

"No," Bofur said disinterestedly, glancing back at the crags below. He didn't want to talk about anything, and didn't have the words to express what was going on in his mind.

"When gold speaks to the mind," the star-haired dwarf said, caressing his fingers slowly across his own temple, "it seems that nothing but cool golden coins can soothe the flame within. It burns so hot, and coins seem so chilled and sweet, but yet... the gold-sick dwarf does not know the gold for its own particular nature, the essence that makes up goldness. He sees only a thing to be craved, a spindle round which to wrap the thread of his desire. This is why it is a sickness and not a wellness. Such craving does not teach the dwarf the craft of hammer and file, rasp and tongs, how to shape and form the gold, the jeweler's art, the coiner's hammer. It does not impart the knowledge of the way that gold may be coiled, drawn, spun, used, shaped into toys and treasures, wire and weave, it merely mocks with misery." Bofur had no patience for alliterative whimsy today and almost said so, but when he glanced over Nori was intent, staring directly into Bofur's eyes with coal-black eyes seeming to will him to understand. "Gold is only a tool, a way to bring joy, but to crave it for itself is to kill that joy a-borning. Do you see?"

Bofur shook his head exhaustedly. "No. No I don't see." Nori sighed deeply and hit his hands together in frustration once, then stilled again.

"I will try to speak more closely and clearly in clues, though these are knife words I speak, dangerous blades," he whispered, closing his eyes briefly. "Craving is not loving. Mad Thror and even Thorin craved for gold but loved it not. Yet what the king loves he does not crave... for he understands it, he seeks to know it without letting his desire cloud his eye, to know what is truly there and not just what he wishes, do you see? There can be no love without understanding, no more than water can be known without wetness, or fire without heat. We only love through knowing, not through wanting, but when we know, we love the more." Nori stopped and shook both hands to his left, then right, wiry limbs almost vibrating with the effort of keeping still. "Do not make me speak further. I cannot dance closer to the blade for lips and tongue will turn against me, son of Winfur, and I will fall upon bladed word of my own making, so sharp it will pierce the core of me and thus unmake this tattered rag, this broken ship in which I sail." Nori had become steadily more agitated as he spoke, tapping harder and faster, arms and legs moving restlessly. Abruptly the star-haired dwarf leaped up, twirled in circles for a moment, then threw himself back down again still almost shaking with nervous energy. "Do not go, do not fly to the sky, my eye would cry to be alone in this throne of stone, so alone." Spidery fingers traced a meaningless shape on Bofur's shoulder and withdrew but the anguished look that accompanied the gesture told Bofur his thoughts must have been all too visible on his face. He sighed heavily.

"I won't," he said, looking again down at the rocks far below and giving a ragged chuckle. "I couldn't. I'm too much of a coward."

"No," Nori said firmly, smiling in obvious relief, kicking each foot in turn. "Those words contain more raving than my own ragged ramblings. Coward you are not, I say, but rather you," he said with one thin, pointy finger thrusting into Bofur's chest, "are an idiot."

"I know," he said sadly. "I truly am." Nori nodded companionably but did not leave. Together, the two sat for hours watching the birds flying around them in the afternoon sunlight.

Days crept by in misery. One night during dinner, Bofur overheard the hobbit speaking to Ori about the library. The dragon hadn't gone near it, smelling no gold there and having utterly no use for books, but even so the decay of almost two centuries had left it in a dire condition. The dust of ages filled it, the mice had played in parts of it, and the shelves were far from stable. Early reports said not a single lamp remained working in the whole area. Even so, it was remote and far away from where everyone was staying, offering a privacy alone with Bilbo that Bofur could never find in the more settled parts of the mountain. Bofur knew better than to be anywhere near Bilbo after his disgrace in the camp, but his heart and his feet led him there in spite of his best intentions not to go.

"Bilbo..." he said in a quiet voice, stepping around a set of leaning shelves into a pool of light. Although the ruins of the library were structurally sound, as reported there were no lights here other than a tiny lantern on the table in front of Bilbo, flickering flame shielded by glass. The hobbit was sitting at a table propped up on the wreckage of another, gazing at a book and pretending to read. Despite his craving, Bofur was well aware he was no expert on hobbits. Even so, he was fairly sure they didn't read books upside down. Bilbo glanced up, and the exhaustion visible on his face went through the miner like a knife. Even worse was the look of disappointment when he saw who it was.

"Oh... Bofur," the hobbit replied awkwardly, waving a hand in a meaningless gesture, half greeting and half warding. "What brings you to the library?" Bilbo tried to smile, but the expression looked ghastly. Bofur's fingers itched to smooth out the worried lines on the hobbit's brow.

"You," the miner replied before he could control his mouth, then flushed. Bilbo's face fell even further, mouth twisting ruefully. "I mean... I was checking to see if you were alright. And I wanted to apologize." He took off his hat and twisted it in his fingers. Bilbo's mouth tightened as his eyes looked away.

"Oh... I... yes, it's just been... I'm sorry. This isn't a good time, I'm afraid. I'm quite tired, I think I should go and rest." He stood, but Bofur grimaced, emotions roaring inside him at the sight of his hobbit.

"When is a good time, then?" Bofur heard himself asking, watching himself trying to provoke a confrontation though the tiny sensible part of him was screaming that to do so was the worst possible idea. "It seems that every time I see you lately is a bad time. Do you think so little of me even as a friend that just the sight of me is enough to send you scurrying?" The hobbit jumped as though he had been stabbed, eyes cutting down to the table and then around the room, refusing to look at him.

"Bofur, no," Bilbo said miserably. "Of course you're my friend. It's just... Please don't... let's just not talk about it. I'm sorry for... for whatever I did but..." The hobbit twined his fingers together miserably, and rage ran through the miner's veins like fire. He had promised himself he was going to stay calm but just the sight of Bilbo burned in him like a forge. He was shouting before his mind realized it.

"So that's it, then? You're sorry? Sorry, Bofur, I never meant to kiss you? Sorry, Bofur, that you fell in love with me and I didn't care? Sorry, Bofur, go be miserable for the rest of your _fucking_ life because you're not worth my time?" He jumped up, panting for breath, torn between the desire to seize the hobbit and forcefully kiss him and the desire to run away screaming.

"It wasn't like that! It wasn't!" Bilbo shouted. "I didn't..." his voice was wretched, tears flowing down his face. "I didn't know that's what it meant, I keep telling you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... I... I..." he collapsed on the table, face down in his arms, sobbing.

"Bilbo... I'm sorry, I don't mean to yell. I'm... I apologize. Mahal, I'm a disgrace." Bofur said grimly. "I'm ashamed of myself. I just don't know what to say. I love you; I know you hate to hear it, but it's true. It's the way we dwarves are made, we only get one chance for love and you are mine. My One. I think... I think we could be..." He looked at the crying hobbit and reached out his hand to comfort him, putting it on Bilbo's shoulder. The hobbit shook the hand off immediately and pulled away, glaring at him.

"Don't touch me," he said furiously, tears and snot still running down his face. "I don't know what else to say either, Bofur. I can't just... suddenly love you. That's not how it works for hobbits. I don't understand this business of Ones or the rest of it. I know now that it is how you're made, how Mahal made you, but... frankly, it's a bit shit, and I'm sorry you dwarves got the short end, but I can't help you. I can't." The last words were said in an anguished tone. What Bofur heard chilled him deeply. Who else had been talking to Bilbo about these things? "I like you... at least I did, before... before all this. You were a good friend, you were good company, but I don't... I never... wanted you like that. Kissing doesn't mean anything to hobbits, I told you that. You were never the one I wanted! I mean... excuse me," Bilbo choked out, visibly embarrassed. "I was just lonely and wanted... wanted a moment where I didn't feel so alone. And now, now I've ruined our friendship and ruined your life and ruined... ruined so bloody much I can't stand it." He stopped, shaking his head, overwhelmed by everything. Bofur knew his own face was nothing but a picture of misery, but these words were like nails driven through his heart, one right after another. Bilbo turned directly towards him for the first time in the whole conversation, eyes wild and crazed. "I can't stand any more of this. I... I can't see you any more. This obsession is bad for you, bad for me, bad for everyone; it's a poison, and I hate it. Just... just stay away from me." With that, the hobbit ran off still crying. The echoes of his sobs came back for a minute or so as Bofur sat, stunned, trying to make sense of what just happened until the lantern finally flickered out, leaving him sitting in darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Bofur barely left his rooms for almost a week, thoughts whirling around and around his last conversation with Bilbo. He kept flashing to Bilbo crying and hating himself that he made the hobbit cry, hating the hobbit for making the mess in the first place (he knew intellectually Bilbo wasn't to blame but his heart thought otherwise), hating himself for falling for him... Impulses and images chased themselves round and round until he was almost mad from it. Nori stopped by several times but Bofur had been unable to talk to him, coherently at any rate. For once, small talk had failed the miner utterly, and he knew better than to mention the hobbit by name or implication. All he could see was Bilbo crying, Bilbo's face explaining horrible unwanted things. The former thief had seemed on edge anyway, and Bofur's stuttering and stumbling seemed to enrage him somehow. With a dismissive "You're an idiot," Nori had swept out the door and vanished into the dark halls of the mountain; Bofur hadn't even had a chance to stammer out his standard reply. His misery was interrupted on the sixth morning by a loud pounding on his door.

When he opened it, half-hoping to see Bilbo and half-hoping Nori had come back to let him apologize, he was astonished to see Dwalin. He wondered if Thorin had gotten around to formally making him Captain of the King's Guard yet; if not it was only a matter of time. "King wants you," the enormous warrior said. Bofur felt the whole room freeze, like the air had unexpectedly turned into crystal, trapping him on the spot.

"He's... he's up and about?" Bofur asked. At Dwalin's nod, Bofur grinned mirthlessly. "Don't suppose you or the rest of the family are planning on making him pay for what he did on the walls, then?"

Dwalin flushed but put up one hand before the miner could speak further. "Listen, Bofur. Let me tell you something. I like you, but you're being a fool about the hobbit. If you keep pushing, you're going to get someone killed. Probably you, if I'm being honest. Thorin's waiting in the throne room, and he's furious. Please don't..." Dwalin always looked threatening, but this time there was something sad and melancholy in his gaze. Bofur wondered for a moment if Thorin was planning to kill him; a fair play, he supposed. It had happened before in situations like this. Finally Dwalin took a deep breath and said "Just don't make this worse, alright?"

Bofur grimaced but nodded. He had assumed that the family had decided to pretend the whole shameful episode had never happened, and it seemed they were going to get away with it. Typical. "Guess I'll go find him." Dwalin nodded and turned away, but Bofur felt a rush of acceptance of his fate from somewhere. It was obvious how this was going to work out, he supposed. "It can't get much worse, anyway." Dwalin whirled around, shaved head shining from the torch nearby and casting his scalp tattoos into stark relief. His axes clashed together as he spun, reminding Bofur that he was lucky Dwalin hadn't been sent to simply kill him. It wouldn't be the first time a quiet murder had solved a problem for a dwarven king, especially when the target was isolated like Bofur was now.

Dwalin scowled at him fiercely. "It could get a lot worse, Bofur. Tremendously worse. Don't make it do that." 

"I might," Bofur laughed mirthlessly, wondering how things could possibly get that much worse than rejection and misery. "Because I'm an idiot. So I'm told, anyway." Unexpectedly Dwalin burst out laughing, roars of mirth echoing through the halls. Bofur wondered if Bilbo could hear the laughing, wonder what was happening, but forced his mind back to what he was doing.

"Can't imagine where you might have heard that," the giant warrior said, still chuckling. He eventually sobered and clapped Bofur on the shoulder. "You used to be a sensible dwarf, Bofur. Just... be careful." Bofur nodded and trudged through the dark and dusty halls to seek out Thorin in the throne room. He hated the throne room, and he knew Thorin did as well; it was one of Thror's greatest extravagances before he got too mad to function, punching through the floor of the old throne hall into a deep chasm beneath and leaving a spiderweb tracery of walkways hovering in midair. No dwarf belonged hovering in the air like a sparrow. The whole room was a monument to poor ideas, to hubris and the peculiar madness of the line of Durin. Bofur supposed in a way it was an appropriate venue for their meeting.

Thorin stood in the center of the room on the platform that held the high throne of Erebor, staring down at the empty seat with distaste. The king looked ragged but still surprisingly strong; his fresh bandages were already bloodstained, though they only held the brown of dried blood, not the the bright red of fresh. The empty socket on the throne where the Arkenstone had burned gaped like a missing tooth but Bofur barely spared it a glance. "Yes, my king?" He asked, trying as hard as he could to keep the bitterness from his voice. Thorin turned, glaring at him but seeming unsurprised. Hardly shocking; Bofur had heard his own footsteps crossing the ridiculous narrow bridges with no railings that Thror had thought emphasized his 'majesty'. The bridges themselves were tricky, caked with dust and not visibly cracked but they felt touchy to stonesense even so. The drop below them plunged a tremendous distance into darkness. Nobody had ever seen to the bottom, though the faint sound of rushing water could be heard far below if the room was as silent as it was now.

"Bofur." Thorin's baritone rumble was impressive; very kingly, Bofur thought. He'd always thought so, and it seemed even more so since Thorin had become king in fact rather than in theory. The miner had never known he could hate something and be impressed by it at the same time, but it seemed the learning was never done in the hell his life had become. Nori was right; he was an idiot. "You came. I wasn't sure you would." Blue eyes flashed in a face that seemed set in a permanent scowl.

"What do you want, Thorin?" Bofur asked, after a moment of tension so thick it seemed to pull the air from the room. "If it's about the mines, I haven't even..."

"Mines?" Thorin gave a bitter chuckle. "We're years from worrying about the mines. You know perfectly well why I summoned you here. You were a fool to think he wouldn't tell me; he cried for hours. This is your only warning. He's mine. Stay away from him." Thorin glared at him, the very picture of dwarven jealousy. Bofur knew he was on thin ice; he would feel the same. If he was being honest, he already did, and had for months.

"Oh, that's it, then? A royal command? Bad enough you almost kill him on the walls, now you steal him from me and then tell me I'm..." Thorin seemed to levitate forward even as Bofur's mouth was shaping the words. Before his mind caught up with what he had said, he was fighting for his life. He knew he didn't have a chance against Thorin, even as wounded as the king was. Who could? As Erebor's heir and then king, he had trained since birth, fought in dozens of battles, and Bofur was just a miner. A damn good miner, admittedly, but the Rockworm of the Ered Luin was hardly a challenge for the Champion of Azanulbizar. He barely got his mattock off his back and into a guard position before it was knocked from his hands and sent flying off the ledge into the abyss. Within another ten seconds he was flat on his back pressed against the edge, head hanging backwards into emptiness, Thorin leaning over him, edge of the elvish witch-blade pressed to his throat. Fresh red blood was seeping into Thorin's bandages and Bofur wondered if it was worth trying to hit them and worsen the wounds. He shifted his leg a bit, checked his balance, felt the stone. Panting, he looked up. Just a kick would be enough, and they would both go to join his weapon in the nigh-bottomless depths below the walkway. Tempting, he thought. Very tempting.

"It is treason to lift weapons against your king. I could kill you for that," Thorin said softly. His voice was calm, cold, but his eyes looked more sad than angry. "But I would rather not. There has been too much killing and loss already. I don't hate you, son of Winfur. If anything I pity you, because I could have been you if things had gone differently. I will spare you now for saving me in the battle; a life for a life. But I say again... stay away from what's mine." Bofur hated Thorin at that moment, almost enough to do what he thought of, but when he saw the shining new bead in the king's hair his muscles went limp. An image of Bilbo left alone and mourning floated in front of him, and he knew that he wasn't strong enough to do it. Nori wouldn't have hesitated, he knew, and that thought coiled in his gut with the rest of the poison already there. His friend always was stronger than him, odd or not.

"You did it then," Bofur whispered. "He actually..."

"Yes," Thorin said. "We are betrothed. I told you: he is mine." The king looked surprised and then disturbed when Bofur started laughing. It wasn't a very good laugh; more than half a sob, but laughing nonetheless.

"I could flip us off this bridge, Thorin Oakenshield. We could die together in the deeps." Bofur said, grinning up at him like a goblin, all misery and malice and bared teeth, hating himself for it but unable to do otherwise. "I almost did. But I won't. Not because I want to live, because right now I want to die more than anything else... and king or not, I would gladly kill you for touching him. What keeps me from it is only that killing you would upset Bilbo. Go back to the hobbit you snatched from me and know he saved your life, King of Erebor. But you win. I won't trouble him again." Thorin looked at him for a moment, glanced at the edge right beneath Bofur's shoulders, and did the calculations for himself. Nodding, he fought his way upright, sheathing his blade while wincing at his wounds. Bofur was sure Oin would curse the king for reopening them.

"He saves my life every day, Bofur." Thorin said, brilliant azure eyes pinning him, holding him, willing him to understand. "Every day." Bofur started to cry, great gulping sobs, but he was too far gone to care. His heart was in ragged shards, and pride didn't have a lot to offer in the way of comfort; he knew he looked pathetic, but he was also sure he couldn't look half as pathetic as he felt. Thorin was somehow kind enough to pretend the miner wasn't falling apart in front of him, turned away long enough for him to crawl backwards and drag himself upright. The king stepped towards the throne and turned back, face cold and intent above his bloody bandages. "But know this: I stole nothing. I took nothing that was not freely offered. He came to me as I came to him, and you are a fool for pretending otherwise." Thorin sighed, squaring his shoulders and drawing himself up. "Now, though, I will speak not as Bilbo's betrothed but as King of Erebor, and I tell you this... you must leave my mountain. Take as much as you desire from the treasure; you came and helped me, risked your life and fulfilled your contract. It is, after all, up to one fourteenth part yours, and you could not take your whole share in one trip if you brought the whole of the Iron Hills as porters. So help yourself. Take food, armor, weapons, gold, whatever you wish, and make your goodbyes. I will not obstruct you. But be gone by sundown, or your life is forfeit." Thorin turned and stalked off, leaving Bofur sitting in the dust on the walkway.

Eventually, of course, he rose and left. He had to. He went to his family, Bifur and Bombur staring at him in sadness as he explained that he had to go, no there was no choice, he couldn't say why... but they knew. Of course they knew. Even with so few dwarves in the mountain, everyone knew everything; even Dain's crew doubtless knew the story of the hopeless miner who loved the king's hobbit and was spurned. Bofur doubted the other Durins would even notice he was gone. He fetched a backpack, sent Bombur for food, and went to the treasury, sorting out items that would fetch a good price. When he was sorting items in the treasury, he hefted a mattock, then another. His father's weapon was never coming back from the abyss, and he might as well take the best he could find. Nori ghosted up beside him and began sorting treasures without speaking, filling a backpack of his own.

"What are you doing?" Bofur asked in surprise. Nori didn't even glance over. Not once during the process did he respond, though Bofur asked several times with increasing urgency; he merely packed his own bags and made it obvious he was coming with Bofur when he left. "Stop... Nori, stop," Bofur finally cried, reaching out and grabbing at his hands. Nori stopped but pulled his hands away sharply and then stood staring at the floor, fingers still tapping and dancing along his sides, counting out patterns and rhythms as he ignored Bofur completely. "You don't have to come with me, Nori. It's not that I don't... I mean, I will miss you. You're... you're my best friend," he said softly, but there was no acknowledgement of his words. "But your family is here. This is your treasure too, you're rich. You don't have to do this. There's no reason you should suffer for my stupidity. Stay here and be happy." He took up his new mattock and went to lift his backpack when a hand wrapped around his wrist. Looking up, he saw Nori's furious black eyes staring daggers at him.

"It is not dark enough to say even this, but I will speak this much even in this half-light, just to stop untimely questions. " Nori drew a harsh breath and exhaled, words softening to a fierce mutter. "You do not take me, drag me, pull me away from family and friend, away from home and hearth and hollowed hallows. Do not think that my steps are not my own, Bofur son of Winfur, that I come and go at your command. A companion am I, not a hound to heel and hunt, cringing cur to come at call. Do not seek to tell me where my happiness lies. I will come with you because I will come with you, and all your talking is wasting time that is a gift from an unquiet king. Do not squander a kingly gift on common words, my 'best friend'. Prepare your feathers so that when we fly the sky is not so cold." Bofur's feelings were almost hurt at the intensely scornful tone with which Nori said 'best friend', but everything else was eclipsed by his shock at Nori's reference to time.

"Kingly gift? You... you were there? In the throne room?" Bofur wracked his memory, trying to think of where in that open spiderweb of stone the star-haired dwarf could have been. Nori looked away, still tap-tap-tapping his fingers against his belt. "Nori..." The other dwarf chuckled darkly.

"Kings may threaten, kings may warn, this much is part of rulership. But kings may not kill, may not harm without consequences, not on whimsical wishes. And this was not a king speaking, no ruler ruling, just a petty dwarf bullying another, secure in his own triumph." A dagger appeared from wherever Nori kept them, flashed across his knuckles, vanished again, then reappeared marching the other way. "You should never go alone to meet with an enemy, even an almost sort of enemy who wishes he were otherwise. Friends don't let friends do such things." Nori's face twisted into an uncharacteristically mournful expression, ignoring Bofur's obvious shock. "Gather your things." He turned away, then whirled suddenly, glaring at Bofur. "You're an idiot," the former thief said matter-of-factly in a cold voice that Bofur had never heard before.

"I know," Bofur sighed miserably, feeling his eyes prickle with unshed tears. Nori turned and stalked off stiffly without further comment. 

They left at sunset, camping on Ravenhill in the ruins, then setting out the next day for the Iron Hills. Bifur came to wave them off, face a mask of sadness. Bofur knew Bilbo wouldn't come, but even so not seeing him there still hurt even as he cursed himself for his own stupidity for hoping. The agonized knowledge that he was not likely to ever see the hobbit again kept Bofur quiet and grieving. Nori just sighed and picked up the slack in their camping, cooking and scrounging wood while Bofur moped and cried. In spite of the miner's bleak misery they made very good time, crossing a distance in five days that it took Dain's army two weeks to span. There was no chance of getting lost with such obvious tracks to follow directly back to the fortress. They passed through the gates just before they closed for the night on the evening of the fifth day. After a few inquiries in the market with merchants who were closing their shops, they found a decent tavern and rented a room with a few coins. It was decent, even nice by the standards of Ered Luin, but the worn beds and patched rug were hardly luxurious.

"Nori..." Bofur began, then quailed when he saw the look on the lean dwarf's face, narrow jaw set, shadowed eyes flinty, usually impeccably arranged hair dusty and slightly disarrayed. They were both still dirty from the trip, but curiosity offered a respite from the grinding misery of grieving a love that never was. A glance and raised eyebrow gave him enough encouragement that he could continue. "Why did you really come with me? Leave Erebor with me?" The eyebrow didn't move; Nori didn't even seem to be breathing. In spite of everything in him, Bofur's mouth kept stumbling on, growing more awkward with each word. "You didn't have to... I mean... I just don't know why you..."

"Of course I had to." Nori had clearly decided to put Bofur out of his increasingly incoherent misery, though the miner had no idea why. It probably hurt him to hear words used so poorly, Bofur thought. Nori sighed and sat on the edge of one of the beds. It wasn't a normal seat but more like a collapse, the miner realized, like watching a cave wall you thought was solid all along just fold in the middle and end in a pile of rubble. Nimble hands went over the thief's face, fingers scrubbing at his eyes for a too-quick moment before dropping again. "I found myself too likely there to kill someone. Better that I be with you here in whatever here we find than there making bodies. Murder is a vice, but murder from sheer vexation is a madman's torment. Rage makes no art."

"Kill someone?" Bofur said in horror. "Who? Why?" Nori looked down, sighed, and then gave Bofur a rare, unguarded look that went through him like a spear. The love and pain in that look was so achingly familiar that Bofur slumped backwards, landing in a chair only through the sheer luck that it happened to be behind him. The odd something between them fell into uncomfortable focus. "No," the miner said softly, more a prayer than a negation. "Nori..."

"Turn out the light if you insist on speaking about this," Nori said in a voice flat with despair. Bofur nodded slowly, rising and covering the glowing crystal before feeling his way back to his chair in the dark. Pitch blackness filled the room like liquid; the usual sense of comfort in the dark was sharply missing here. This darkness was pregnant and smothering, full of secrets. "Good." Nori said softly. "Good. Things said in darkness do not really exist." Another odd rule, another seemingly nonsensical statement that Bofur knew somehow meant more than anyone could tell him. He realized that Nori had been right all along; if his suspicions were correct, he really was an idiot.

"Why were you going to kill someone, Nori?" Bofur asked in a soft voice. A wet chuckle was the only response for a moment.

"No names. Never names in darkness, nothing here, nothing and no-one to see in nothingness. You know why. I saw you seeing me just then, finally seeing, though your eyes have been broken of late, of late for long and long," came the musing response. "Unless you're even more of an idiot than I think, and I think you can be extraordinarily oblivious, unseeing like a statue of a blind king turned to face a wall. You know that already." A shuffling noise, perhaps Nori making his way to one of the beds, perhaps not. "I was about to kill a hobbit. A king. A miner. Myself. All and none, none and all, and none of those deserved to die for a reason that doesn't exist, not really. A dance that died before the first step was taken, leaving only dust. And what a waste that would have been, and is." A shuddering sigh came from the darkness. "So here we are."

Bofur dropped his head forward where he sat, cradling it in his hands, hiding himself even in pitch darkness. What a ridiculous, horrible mess they have stumbled into, he thought bitterly; words failed him at how to even describe it. Even though he had been there since the beginning, a key player in each new horror, he still isn't sure how they had ended up in that lightless hole together, telling secrets that all led back to misery. "Mahal." He thought he said it normally but somewhere between mind and lips it turned into an agonized whisper. "Nori, I'm so sorry. I wish... I don't even know what to say. Durin's balls, what a mess." He breathed in, breathed out against the tightness in his chest. His own pain had blinded him to his best friend's suffering, and he felt wretched. Now he had a new reason to be disgusted with himself. "When?" he asked softly.

"No names I said, lest the darkness hear. Do you even listen?" The sardonic voice was breaking, sounded glottal and wet. "Does it matter when?" He finally said miserably. "Does knowing how many feathers are on the arrow that kills you make you any less dead?" Bofur snorted a laugh in spite of himself. Nori's turns of phrase were a constant source of amusement, even in hells like the one they found themselves in.

"I just wondered how much of a fool I truly was," Bofur said in disgust. "If it was before I... I just wish I'd known that you..." Suddenly, shockingly, there was a knife at his throat in the jet black darkness, edge pressing through his short beard and barely creasing the skin. There had been no sound, no sense of movement in the still air, but Bofur was abruptly aware that he needed to pay very close attention indeed. He was almost certain Nori wouldn't hurt him, but even so, this was an extravagant way to ensure that he listened... and 'almost' was still just 'almost'.

Nori's voice whispered from behind him (how did he get behind me? Bofur wondered) "Don't say it. Don't ever say it aloud. There isn't enough darkness in the world or under it to cover that truth up, once you speak it into existence. That change cannot be unmade, those words cannot be turned back. Knife words, danger words, too cutting to survive the blow. We will never speak of this directly again, do you understand? Even this much was a mistake. To probe the cut only drives the blade further in, you know this yourself, you walking stab wound, you bleeding gash in the flesh of the world." Nori's breath was hot on Bofur's ear, perched somehow impossibly between where he sat and the wall that had been there when the light went out. "And if you let this change one tiny thing between us... if you act differently, talk differently, even think differently... whether I kill you or not, I will be gone. I must. I can't... I can't stand it otherwise." The thief's whisper sounded agonized. Bofur knew that pain, knew it intimately from the inside, how it waxed and waned, throbbed and twisted, how it could seem to be all but gone and then roll over into shocking agony in a moment when you least expected it. It simply wasn't something he ever expected to hear from the strongest dwarf he knew. "Do you understand?" He nodded, slowly and hesitantly, and the knife was gone as though it had never been there, vanishing into the pitch blackness.

Moments later, the shade was lifted off the lamp. The nondescript stone room was revealed again, ragged beds and torn rug swimming back into focus from wherever vision went when the light disappeared. Nori didn't meet his eyes. One long, elegant hand came up, smoothed an errant strand of hair back into the elaborate coif on top of his head, shifted some pin or other to hold it in place. Bofur cleared his throat. "So... dinner, then?" Fierce eyes looked up and a wolfish grin was his reward, pain tucked away behind a mask as though it had never been. We can do this, the miner thought. 

Later that night, Bofur was almost asleep when a soft voice muttered "You're an idiot" in the pitch darkness. The tone was so soft and hopeless he wasn't even sure he was supposed to hear it. Bofur felt his eyes well up with tears in spite of himself. He knew now why Nori had told him that all along. Worse, he had never understood more fully just how much of an idiot he was and had been.

"I know," he said, trying to express all of his regrets and self-hatred, all of his sorrow that things had worked out so poorly and his bleak misery in two short words. There was no reply, only the sound of muffled crying.

They barely lasted a week in the Iron Hills. Soldiers returning knew them, and word got around. Gossip distorted it, and so Bofur became unwelcome, not quite a criminal but not respectable either. Nori almost fought a dwarf who accused the miner of attempted regicide, and they both knew they had to leave before things got any worse. Bofur shrugged; he wasn't keen on staying in the Iron Hills anyway. It was too close to Erebor, and too close to Bilbo. If he couldn't have him, even if he had to be haunted by thoughts of the hobbit until the end of time, he reasoned, better that he be far enough away that the temptation to run away and try to see him wouldn't seem feasible. He tried to discuss with Nori where else they could go. He had heard of enormous cities in the south, far to the east of Umbar and in the mountains of south Harad, and so had Nori; the four other clans of the dwarves had settled there since the First Age and the Blacklock, Stiffbeard, Ironfist and Stonefoot dwarves were practically unknown to them beyond the occasional caravan and exotic trade good. They both decided they would be interested in seeing the cities their distant cousins had made... the only sticking point being that neither of them had the first idea how to get there. Nori tried to communicate an idea about possible directions, but it sidetracked into a discursive talk on bird wings that left Bofur both confused and frustrated. That was the day they lost half their treasure in the market.

Bofur went to sell a jewel he had taken from the hoard. Nori warned him not to go, but they didn't have any of the coins of the Iron Hills, and the miner thought it would be easy enough to sell one of the gems he had taken from Erebor's treasury. The merchant examined it, exclaimed over it, the clarity and color of the stone, but seemed oddly cagey about setting a price. Bofur negotiated for long enough to know something was wrong before a guard appeared, summoned through some means he didn't know. His pack was taken, searched, and when the treasures in it came to light everyone stopped and gawked. The miner was accused of being a thief; his scruffy clothes and ragged braids made him look suspect and there was no way he could have all this treasure. Bofur's protestations that he had been given permission to take the items went unheard. After he raised enough hell, the guard captain promised to write to Thorin to see if his story was true but the miner knew this was a lie... he would have been held if that were true. Instead he was put outside the guardroom and told to go home, a clear and obvious dismissal. Nori was waiting for him in their room, furious but sympathetic, and they decided to leave immediately.

They joined a caravan heading south, signing on as guards. The dwarves in it looked odd, dark skin and darker hair, pale colored eyes, and they spoke Khuzdul with a strange accent neither Bofur nor Nori had heard before. The caravan claimed to be going to Umbar, a city of men in the deep south. Nori was excited to see Gondor, a city of men he had heard of in some song or other, so Bofur was excited as well. The caravan master told them he didn't want to stop there, but he said it would be visible in the distance. They were on the eastern side of the Anduin, trying to pass by to avoid paying the taxes the Gondorians levied on caravans when tragedy struck. Neither Bofur nor Nori were prepared for the orcs that came boiling out of the darkness, and combat was on them before anyone knew what was happening. The caravan fought bravely and beat them back, but Nori lay dead when they were done, an orc arrow in his throat. The others were stoic about the loss, of course; they had no way to know that he was all Bofur had left. "Lucky shot for the filth", one of the other guards said. "Bad luck" another commented. Those words and a clap on the back were all the comfort Bofur was offered. They buried him there in the dirt, far away from the stone, and Bofur cried like his world was ending. The only positive he could see was that he had nothing left to lose.

He drifted south with the caravan. After Umbar, they passed on south even from there, and Bofur went with them. Eventually he found work as a bone miner in the fortress of the Stiffbeards. High in the Bone Mountains south of Umbar, the caravan made its way to the carved gates and Bofur saw a whole city full of dwarves who resembled the caravan crew. He supposed he was the exotic one now. When the miner looked at unfamiliar patterns, artwork in new styles, he nodded. Something new would be welcome, he thought grimly, less to remind him of all the loss and suffering he had endured. After a demonstration of his skills, a mine foreman was delighted to offer him a position. Bofur had missed mining, and he had to admit these mountains were rich. The namesake stone of the Bone Mountains (one could hardly call it ore) they mined in great slabs was almost identical to ivory, and lovely. He sometimes wondered if the scholars were right, if this really did come from the actual bones of some creature that was unimaginably vast. He doubted it, really, based on the shape of the deposits. They weren't arranged in any order, they split and drifted like veins of any other ore or stone, they just happened to be soft and white and very fine-grained. He wished Bilbo could see it, wished Nori could have lived to be here with him, wished a thousand things had worked out differently. At least his theory of distant separation proved out; he would still wake in the middle of the night, desperate to see and hold the hobbit, but the distance was so great even his crazed heart knew it was a futile hope to return. There was peace in that knowledge, of a sort. He missed Nori but it was an ache of a different sort... though increasingly, he wished it wasn't. He would give anything for the touch of soft hands from the Shire in the middle of the night, but there were dozens of times a day that he would give just as much to see a wolfish grin, or hear a stream of almost-nonsense that made startling sense when picked apart, or even to hear the tap-tap-tapping of fingers on... on anything, really.

For two years, he worked in a team in the depths. They were sinking a new shaft and it was hard, grueling work, but he thrived in it. The harder he worked, the less he had to think of Bilbo, of jealousy, of Nori dead at his feet. First he worked on a team, then he led one. His old nickname from Ered Luin came back, and he was the Rockworm to everyone, praised through the whole kingdom for his speed and efficiency, and he began to be reasonably content. He still dreamed of smooth, pudgy flesh, of golden curls, but he knew they were dreams even when he had them so they were less painful when he woke. After one such dream he was unable to return to sleep so he sought out the new shaft, puttering about in a sub-shaft they were forcing to chase a vanished seam. The walls were narrow since this was just exploratory, and the ceiling was low. Strange sounds had been reported in the area. Bofur hoped they weren't close to a cave; that sort of thing could destabilize the whole formation and make digging a challenge even for a skilled miner. Once Bofur got to the bottom, he went looking for hollow sounds in the walls. He had barely tapped the wall to sound it when the harsh creaking snap of a mine support giving way made him look up. _Oh that's not good_ , he had time to think, before the ceiling came to meet the floor and took him with it. Darkness fell.


	4. Chapter 4

Consciousness returned with a flash. I can't have survived that, he thought as his eyes opened, the whole shaft collapsed. Glancing around, he saw that he was lying on a floor in a dark forge, lit only by the flames within. Iron bars were thrust into it, glowing white-orange, and an anvil was nearby. There was a dwarf he didn't recognize standing over him. The dwarf had a middling dark complexion, dark, medium length hair, a well-braided but nondescript beard... really, Bofur thought, he could be anyone that you would see at a market stall and never notice. Who is he? The dwarf chuckled, and his voice was the voice of a mountain, deep and roaring. He spoke and it was like a lava pipe rumbling.

"Awake, are we?" the strange dwarf asked. Bofur grimaced, suddenly sure of where he was. He realized that he had been correct; he hadn't survived after all.

"Lord Mahal," the miner said, scrambling up into a kneeling position and bowing his head reverently. In spite of himself, he wondered if Bilbo would be allowed here. Who cares, he thought. You're dead. Let that misery die as well. He wished he was able to mean it. The craving was still with him, twining through his mind like a choking vine, making him long for pale skin and blond curls, furry feet and soft curves. Bofur glanced up and saw his maker staring at him, waiting for something. "Is this... where I'm judged?" Bofur finally asked.

"If you want it to be," came the bored-sounding response. The dwarf set out a sculpted piece of metal and began winding a wire along a tiny channel cut into it. "Anything you are particularly proud of?" Mahal looked up at the miner knowingly, mouth taking on a sardonic twist. "Or ashamed of?"

"I..." his lips froze in place, tongue like a slab of meat in his mouth. He tried valiantly to confess the whole mess of Bilbo, Nori, himself, Thorin, and the tangled wreckage of hopes and dreams that had resulted from a simple misunderstanding, but words fled. No matter how he tried he was unable to speak. Curiosity suddenly arose from the depths of his mind. "I have a question." Working his jaw, he was shocked to realize that he had actually spoken that time.

"Sounds like a much better use of our time together. Ask," said Mahal, half-smiling at him before focusing again on the wire in his fingers.

"We are told from the time we are pebbles that dwarves only love once," Bofur said, and his voice was as clear and strong as if he'd never had problems speaking. How odd, he mused. "If we loved... poorly," and here he must have flushed because Mahal chuckled, "can there not be a way to choose again?"

"Choose again?" Mahal seemed surprised, glancing up at him. "Oh... buggered it up, did you?" Bofur nodded; there was no point in lying. The Vala hummed, guiding the wire through a tricky channel which seemed almost too small to fit the tiny strand of metal. "Second chances are sometimes possible, but they aren't given very often." Mahal picked up the metal and eyed it curiously, holding it up to the light and turning it this way and that before nodding, seemingly satisfied.

"What tasks must I perform to gain one?" Bofur asked. "I..." once again, he found himself unable to even make reference to Bilbo or any of the million pains that derived from the situation. Mahal glanced over and cocked an eyebrow.

"Stubborn, aren't you? Just desperate to tell me your tale of misery? Not interested. We aren't here to talk about other people. Only you. What do you want to do, Bofur son of Winfur?" Mahal set the metal piece down and stared directly at him and Bofur felt uncomfortably exposed. His mouth surprised him by opening on its own.

"I want to be happy." Surprised at his own answer, he stared as Mahal smiled and nodded as though he were pleased with the answer.

"Ahh," came the tremendous voice, sounding satisfied, "now that's the first truly sensible thing you've said... or thought... in quite a while. And what does 'happy' mean specifically? How will you even know happiness when you find it?"

"Happiness is..." by force of habit he thought _being with Bilbo_ but realized that wasn't true, and hadn't been true for most of the time he'd known him. In fact, he realized sadly, most of the happiness he could remember was from before meeting the hobbit. What little enjoyment he'd been able to scrape out of the world since was in spite of his love for Bilbo, not because of it. He thought for a moment, aware that he had stopped speaking but Mahal sat patiently with an expectant look, as though he were actually curious what answers Bofur could produce. The metal piece was gone, seeming to have vanished during the delay. "Happiness is working hard for good reasons, and feeling productive and appreciated. Happiness is knowing that those around me are taken care of, that my family is well, and that... that my love is honored and reciprocated, and that I can honor and reciprocate the love gifted to me in turn." Where did that come from, Bofur wondered, but Mahal was nodding slowly.

"A proper dwarven answer. Sounds good to me," the Vala said. "And how was your life in those terms, now that you know your answer?" Mahal stood and went to the forge, where he poked about with the iron bars heating inside, shifting them about and eyeing the color. It seemed the dwarves came by their restlessness honestly, since even their creator couldn't sit still without a task to focus on, Bofur grinned.

Focusing back on the question, the miner thought about it. From his childhood in Ered Luin with a poor but loving family, the mines, the loss of his parents, the journey to Erebor and all its attendant wonders and miseries, the fights and endless heartbreaks, his travels with Nori as both of them wept for something they couldn't have, tragedy upon tragedy, loss upon loss... "Shit," he said baldly. "It was shit." Mahal burst out laughing just like any normal dwarf in a dining hall would at hearing such a pronouncement, so Bofur continued. "In those terms I wasn't happy very much at all. Most of the work I did was for money to stay alive, not for any worthwhile purposes or aim. My friends and family suffered, and my love was neither honored nor returned, and I wasn't able to..." He couldn't bring himself to complete the sentence but even so Mahal nodded, smirking. Bofur could tell that the Vala wasn't laughing at him, exactly. Close enough, but not quite. Once again he was reminded of Nori.

"Well, that's worth knowing, don't you think?" Mahal said, pointing one thick finger at him. "A lot of my children suffer, so that's hardly a surprise. The dwarves I made never have fit in very well to this world. The next will be better. But back to your life... what do you think went wrong with the rest? Why were you unable to love properly? Whose fault was that?"

Bofur sighed. "Mine." He closed his eyes for a moment, worrying he'd just ruined his shot at a second chance, but when he opened them Mahal was eyeing him with raised brows. Finally the Vala nodded thoughtfully and gestured for him to continue. Bofur choked a bit but finally murmured "I chose poorly, at least as much as I chose at all. I didn't pay attention to the danger signs until I had already given my heart. I missed... I missed the treasure right in front of me."

"Ahh," Mahal said again, leaning back, giving him a glare that Bofur truly hoped was just for show. He found it a bit terrifying. "Why didn't you pay attention? You knew your heart was only for giving once. What made you give it to someone unsuitable?" 

Bofur could hear Nori's voice in his ear, and all Bofur had to do was simply repeat the words he had heard so many times. "Because I'm an idiot." Mahal's head flew back and his laughter boomed and rolled like a volcano opening up beneath the forge, like a whole mountain range tumbling into a chasm all at once. The whole chamber shook and rattled with the strength of his mirth.

"There we go. That's an admission not many of my dwarves would make, but it's a very good reason. Under those circumstances, yes, I think a second chance could be arranged." The Vala fixed Bofur with a sharp glance that didn't go at all with the utterly nondescript body; those eyes saw right through him to the core of his bones. Mahal's gaze felt like forge-flame on his face and Bofur felt like his mind was being unrolled like a scroll. "I'll tell you this, though... Use it carefully. Idiot or not, you only get one second chance." The light around him faded quickly, but the miner heard Mahal chuckling to himself as he lost consciousness.

This time, when he came back to awareness, there was no sign of the forge, Mahal, or the anvil. This place was light and open, an elegant mountain hall somewhere, but it was carved of stone that Bofur didn't recognize. It looked almost like white marble, but there were veins of gold and silver running through it, and carved plaques were inset with runes telling stories in Khuzdul. The floors were engraved with patterns and set with polished gems of such fineness that they almost looked like pools of colored water, though some glowed with their own soft internal light like the Arkenstone. Dwarves sat on benches along the wall. Dozens... no, Bofur realized, hundreds... of them, sitting still against the walls. As soon as he spotted the resting dwarves a young dwarf came striding over, smiling in a way that seemed oddly ancient for someone so obviously young. His hair was a fine white-blond, almost white, as was his beard, and his eyes were a pearly silver color; Bofur had never seen a dwarf with this coloration in his life.

"Hello, hello," the stranger said. As he drew closer, Bofur realized that the dwarf was wearing clothes of kingly richness, cut in a style he had never seen. "Welcome, new friend, welcome! Finished your chat with Lord Mahal, I take it. Welcome to the Hall of Waiting."

"The... what now?" Bofur asked in confusion. "Waiting for what?" The young dwarf laughed, though Bofur suspected this was a familiar question indeed. "Uh, sorry, Bofur son of Winfur at your service." He sketched a bow, and the pale dwarf smiled even wider.

"Chrairon the Maia at yours and your family's. They are Waiting for their Ones. This is a place for those who find being separated from their Ones too painful to endure. They choose to wait here in a sort of sleep. Would you like to Wait?" The pale dwarf smiled. "Since our Lord sent you directly here, I can only assume you are in discomfort from your bond. You can Wait here for them to come to these halls in their own time, and you will be free from worry or suffering. When they wake you with a kiss, it will be as though only a moment has passed." Bofur thought about it for a second and realized that, for the first time in years, he felt no pull at all towards Bilbo. The thoughts that had haunted him had stopped, and the absence of that gnawing need was almost terrifying, destabilizing, like he had spent years bracing against a wind that had suddenly ceased.

"No," he said sharply, then felt a moment's regret at the surprise in the dwarf's expression. "I'm sorry, but no... I suspect I'm here to collect someone, not... not wait myself." He didn't examine any of the dwarves around the walls too closely, for fear of who he might see. The pale dwarf nodded, understanding.

"Welcome even so. Find your One, then, among my charges." Bofur shook his head slowly, looking around and seeing the hall again, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and anxious. He didn't have someone here, not really. What if he chose poorly again? What if Nori had been given a second chance as well, and shaken the dust from his shoes? Bofur would have in his place. He was under no illusion that he was any catch; even the idea that Nori had loved him seemed unimaginable. He hoped that his friend had found someone better, but choosing again was suddenly terrifying. To feel like that for a hobbit he never really knew beforehand was horrible enough, but to lose a friend so close to such unbearable longing... he didn't think he was strong enough to stand that.

"I... I beg your pardon, I will return, I just, I have to... where is..." Bofur felt faint. His breath clawed in his throat and his head spun. Was it even possible for the dead to pass out, he wondered briefly. He fought his way towards the door and stopped abruptly, feeling as though his blood were pouring out of his body and taking his strength with it. Propped against a wall, looking as though he were resting for a short nap, was a familiar form. Nori's star-shaped hair was immaculate and all his braids were in perfect order. He looked young, much younger than Bofur had ever seen him, and the lines and worry marks were gone from his face. He was wearing the same outfit he had been wearing the day he had died, a sight that gave Bofur a twinge in his gut to see. He had waited, after all. Nori's legs were crossed at the ankle, arms crossed in front of him, and seeing him was both so familiar and so strange that Bofur felt his heart leap inside him and settle into place. Oh, he thought for the second time in his life, oh yes. This time, though, he didn't feel any worry; there was no sorrow, no confusion, just the sense that he had finally come home, that something he hadn't known was missing had just slotted into a hole that had been blocked by a piece that didn't match it. Thank you, Lord Mahal, he thought fervently. I promise not to waste this. He walked over slowly and leaned in, pressing his lips in a gentle peck beneath the dark braided mustache. Crow-black eyes that Bofur realized he had missed more than anything else blinked open suddenly, shocked. "Wake up."

"How...?" Nori stuttered. "What... how can you...?" For once, the master of words was unmade by them and the sight of a speechless Nori left Bofur laughing with a happiness that felt like a bubble inflating inside himself, like he might burst into flame from sheer joy.

"I got a second chance," Bofur said softly, intent on the face in front of him. He reached out and cupped Nori's cheek just for the joy of doing so, relishing the first touch of his fingers on the complicated braids in Nori's beard. Nori looked at Bofur's hand, then back, tap-tap-tapping on his arm with nervous fingertips, seeming ill-at-ease. "And this time I chose correctly. Come on, my love. You've slept long enough." Nori's eyes widened comically at the endearment, so much so that Bofur worried they might fall out. One long-fingered hand reached up and tried to block Bofur's mouth, like he would stop the word from being said and Bofur leaned back, chuckling. Nori's voice came muttering out, sounding concerned.

"Nonono, I told you, told you in the darkness that this is not to be said, you never listen. Even so I was not to wake from my rest, never never, but... A second chance? What second chance is this, the world remade, the bird flies backwards, vomits up the worm it ate and returns to an egg, hatches a hawk where once was a thrush? Not even hawk, this, but great eagle, phoenix, dragon! Who gives such second chances to you, then?" And then in a softer voice full of wonder, "To us?" Bofur couldn't stop laughing, not least because he had missed Nori's flights of verbal fancy more than he realized. 

"Mahal gave it to me," Bofur said, once he was able to fight back the laughter for a moment. He looked into black eyes he realized he had missed more than anything. "Yes, my love... gave it to us."

A look of wonder mixed with longing crossed the narrow face. Nori hesitated, leaned forward slowly, as though expecting to be stopped by someone, slid his hands along Bofur's braids with a touch gentle as falling snowflakes, and pressed his lips achingly slowly to Bofur's. The miner kissed him back as deeply as he knew how, ignoring the beaming of the Maia visible behind Nori's shoulder. Long, strong hands clutched at his shoulders, and the press of the narrow, muscled chest beneath Nori's robes against Bofur made him light-headed again. Nori devoured Bofur like a starving dwarf given a feast of his own, resisting all attempts to pull away until Bofur finally just gave in and sat with him, the two of them wrapped around each other like vines until the strength in those thin arms started to wane. Tears were wet on both their cheeks, and Bofur wasn't sure which of them were crying. It might have been both, he acknowledged. "Missed you," Nori whispered in a tiny voice.

"I missed you too, Nori. More than words can say. I'm so sorry my poor choices made this mess in the first place." The wonder on Nori's face asked the question his lips didn't, but for once Bofur was there already with the answer. "Because I was an idiot." Nori's broad, wolfish grin was just like Bofur remembered, and his heart opened wider than he ever thought possible.

"I know." And with the echoes of Nori's statement still hanging in the air, they stood hand in hand and went to explore the rest of the halls, leaving Chrairon behind with all his charges. Bofur had years of his own suffering to recover from, and years of Nori's suffering to atone for... the time for waiting had passed. Now it was time to celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This whole thing arose from a question "what if the dwarf loves someone who doesn't love them back?" That's an uncomfortable question, and this was the result. Love you guys!


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